


storybook

by tokugawa



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: F/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokugawa/pseuds/tokugawa





	storybook

If their love was a novel, this moment of unity would be his favourite chapter. 

Perhaps the beginning was slow, and the tension was hypothetical. And maybe their conversations were few and far between, and this certain sort of suspension of disbelief hung in the air that someone as beautiful as she would take interest in a person like him. 

And yet, here they were. Together. Her fingers dancing lightly across the skin on his cheeks. Shivers snaking up his spine with every movement of her hips against his own. 

If this moment was a chapter in his life, she was writing it with her own pen in his stead. Her hands traced every crevice of his body, and her teeth inscribed letters on his exposed chest. Her bite marks left ink blots on his once virgin skin, and her kisses were like paper-cuts that dotted his lips with the pink remnants of her makeup. 

His breathing hitched, and he nearly fell back laughing with every thrust of her body in sync with his own. The pleasure of her love making, the sensation of the heat of her body sinking into his, the passionate and tender connection of their bodies in complete and perfect harmony... This moment was like a perfect ending cut completely short as she pulled away, whispering her goodbyes like water— shallow and transparent. 

How foolish he was, to think this was a genre of romance between them. That was the price he paid for incompletion as she fell away into the darkness of the room, leaving with only the silence to follow in her wake. 

—

If her feelings were a novel, they’d be short, sweet, and to the point. She was an adult now, and her moments with Jack were mere sentences in length in comparison to the paragraphs of her life. Still, she was far too young to write this book to its completion, and it felt like she was, rather, ripping up the work she spent so long putting in just to watch the shreds fall to her feet. 

She didn’t mind. She was to die either way, and if these moments with Jack were to be the only light in the dim tunnel up ahead, she’d continue scribbling them down. The description of his body’s jerkiness with every light touch of her fingertips, and the way he met her pace with as much eagerness as a lost puppy finding its home, kept etched in her mind and when she remembered the look in his eyes as he watched her, mouth gaping, face flushed, she immediately wanted to feel the control of having the curve of his touch-starved body jerk to her icy touch. The goosebumps on his torso. The swell of his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. How cute he was when the pressure released and he fell back against the pillow with his hands covering his face. 

She wanted to love the man underneath her. She wanted to write the story he so desperately wanted to read. She wanted to weave plots of love and elation and togetherness. But alas, their only unity was the sleepless nights as she traced him down in her mind. She felt sure she had memorized every second. 

He was a waste of time to ease boredom. Perhaps he was a reason to wake up every morning, even just for the few minutes they shared under silken sheets. And for as much as she could detail about his submission to her, she felt sure there were pages missing— words she could not read. There was a nothingness reflected in the emerald puppy eyes that looked not at her, but through her. 

She wanted to laugh. She wanted him to love her. She wanted a lot of things, but what she got was as minimal as the time she was given to live out her days in peace. 

—

If this was a story, they decided together that it was not romance. It was a comedy— so sad it was funny, that they found comfort in each other; one, looking for a reason to live, and the other looking for salvation from death. 

They weaved tales together. His, detailing heartbreak as she moved lifelessly through him, in him, around him, like water. Shallow and transparent. And hers, depicting defeat, as she gave into the hands that draped around her waist, holding her closely as though she were the tide moving away from him as he begged silently for her to stay. 

Soon, this would all draw to a conclusion. But for now, they caved to the sheets of silken paper as darkness fell around their dancing figures in the midst of nightfall of this familiar quaint little fairytale they wrote together.


End file.
